She turned to her sister-in-law:—"I think Miss Pendarth knew poor Cecil years and years ago," she said softly.
"Are you—you must be Olivia Pendarth?" There was a touch of emotion in Alice Crofton's level voice.
"Yes, I am Olivia Pendarth."
Enid was surprised—not over pleased by the revelation that these two knew one another.
"I suppose it's a long time since you met?" she said pleasantly.
"Miss Crofton and I have never met before," said Miss Pendarth quietly. "But I knew your husband very well in India, when he and I were both young. My brother was in his regiment."
"The dear old regiment!" exclaimed Miss Crofton.
Enid Crofton smiled a little to herself. It amused her to see that these two old things—for so she described them to herself—had so quickly become friends. "The Regiment!" How sick she had got of those two words during her second married life! She was sorry that Alice, whom she liked, should be so queerly like Cecil. Even their voices were alike, and she had uttered the two words with that peculiar intonation her husband always used when speaking of any of his old comrades-in-arms.
All the same Miss Pendarth's sudden appearance had been a godsend. Enid hated going back to the dreadful time of her husband's death.
And then, when everything seemed going so pleasantly, and when Enid Crofton was still feeling a glow of joy at the thought of the cheque for £100, one of those things happened which seem sometimes to occur in life as if to remind us poor mortals that Fate is ever crouching round the corner, ready to spring. The door opened, and the buxom little maid brought in two letters on the salver she had just been taught to use.